


The Boy Hostages

by StormLeviosa



Series: The Lowest and Vilest Alleys [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Barbara Gordon is Batgirl, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Court of Owls, Gen, Gotham by Gaslight universe, He tries so hard, I just wanted to introduce Babs, Kidnapping, Morse Code, Sort Of, Steampunk, Why are Court of Owls AUs Always Angsty?, but I thought I'd mention it, it appears in like one paragraph, it's earlier 1900s superheroes, of course it's steampunk, this is not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 07:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15601605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: Vigilantism and personal life merge when the boys are kidnapped from right under Bruce's nose. It's a race against time for Batgirl to find them before unspeakable things happen to them.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've abandoned this series for so long it's terrible.  
> If it's any consolation, I have finished my exams now so expect more regular updates from now on.  
> I have a total of 7 or 8 pieces planned and I have the last one written already (it's an 13,000 word one-shot, joy).  
> So this is the Court of Owls installment. Most of the Court of Owls stories I've read are really angsty like it's just an excuse to torture poor Dick. I don't intend to do that. I had the boys kidnapped before knowing who kidnapped them and then had to look up potential culprits. The Talons looked suitably steampunk and terrifying on google images so I researched it more and decided to use them.  
> Let me know what you think by leaving kudos or a comment below.

She arrived at precisely eight o’clock in the morning on a Monday with a punctualness that gratified Alfred. The young masters had not yet woken up but master Bruce was drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen while Alfred tended to breakfast. He let the girl in and she stepped inside, head lowered in demure submission. Master Bruce stood and took her hand as she entered the kitchen. “Miss Gordon. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She curtesied deeply and gave a light laugh that rang out like bells. “I assure you, sir, the pleasure is all mine.” She glanced around the kitchen, seeming more at ease now that the pleasantries were out of the way. “I apologise if I have interrupted anything, Mr Wayne, Mr Pennyworth, I can return later if it’s more convenient.” Her voice was raised in question and master Bruce shook his head with a chuckle. Alfred moved back to the stove where the bacon had fried to a perfect texture. The eggs, too, were almost ready and he asked Bruce to wake the boys. He rose with a groan as it pulled his aching knee. Miss Gordon looked askance at their informality and once they were alone Alfred explained. “In future, ensuring the young masters are awake will be one of your duties. Master Bruce, however, has been doing this for as long as they have lived in the manor; one more day will not harm him.” He began to split the food onto five plates and instructed Miss Gordon to lay the table. 

 

Barbara and Selina got on like a house on fire and it worried Bruce. Not because he had any reason to be suspicious of the young Miss Gordon, she had been hidden away from her father’s evil, but because Selina would most likely be a poor influence on the poor girl. The boys adored her too. Dickie because she was pretty and close to his age (and that was something else he would have to worry about, in later years), Jason because she also appreciated literature (what a shock that had been, that his middle son could not only read but knew the classics), and Timmy because she remained perpetually calm. Alfred, though he would never admit it, appreciated the help. It was only him that suspected a plot. It centred around Barbara and Selina.

 

Batman, Robin and Magpie were working a case in the warehouse district. The darkness of the streets masked their movement and the crashes of construction covered their discussion. Robin hung upside-down from a metal railing. “It won’t be the Falcone’s. You put ‘em away last week.” He wasn’t wrong: the Falcone’s, a family of mobsters and arms dealers, had finally been caught in the early hours of Thursday morning after an epic chase through the side streets and alleyways of lower Gotham. It could not be them that had organised the hit on old Mr Cobblepot. He paced for a few minutes, watching Robin swing out of the corner of his eye. The poor man had been alone, living in the grand townhouse just north of the city proper that he had inherited some thirty years ago from an uncle. He had lived there ever since in moderate comfort and made sure to keep out of the way of the political machinations of the Gotham elite. He had been found two days ago with his throat slit. No weapons were left at scene, no footprints, not a hair nor a scrap of cloth. Only the feather of an owl. 

 

In the end, the case was abandoned in favour of a warm bed and an early start the next morning. There was a gala that night and the boys needed to be prepared, after their lessons of course. Barbara was there to help them, to tie their ties, to straighten their collars, to ensure they’d thoroughly scrubbed behind the ears. Then she would help Selina with her beautiful gown and her hair and makeup. They had to be united in their perfection. Bruce was old enough and experienced enough to do it himself but Lord knows how the women managed without a maid and his boys, love them though he did, were hopeless. One would have thought that Timmy, the well raised, more civilised of the trio would understand the process of such an event but it had evidently slipped the mind of whoever taught him manners. He was a quick learner, and polite, so Bruce was sure that he would be able to charm whoever deigned to speak with him. Dickie would have no problems with the guests attending, he was sure. The boy’s bright smile and ever-present laugh lifted the spirits of any who encountered him. It was Jason who worried him. Loud and brash with none of Timmy’s wealthy polish or Dickie’s affable nature, he was not afraid to argue with those he disagreed with. And Gotham took offense too easily. It appeared he need not have worried, however. The trio stuck together, targeting guests they knew had children of their own and striking up a conversation, about their new education primarily. By the time dinner was served, three guests had complemented Bruce and Selina on the boy’s behaviour. But when dinner ended, and the dancing began, the boys disappeared, although Bruce was far from concerned by their absence - they were in his house after all - and instead decided to take Selina for a whirl around the dance floor.

 

The house was scary at night. The Drake house may have been cold and lonely, only a hint of the bizarre to brighten it, but Wayne Manor was haunted by the ghosts of the past. Thomas Wayne’s spectre lingered in his library, forever flicking to whatever page he thought most interesting with a sudden gust of wind, and the piano in the darkened music room tinkled with gleeful laughter when Martha wanted a word. It was difficult to be there alone. Timmy knew that, with so many guests downstairs in the ballroom, the ghosts and shadowed corners shouldn’t bother him but there was something in this night that sent shivers down his spine and had him jumping at any creaking floorboard. Something was stalking the night, something dark, something dangerous and mean. He feared for their safety and longed for Dickie and Jason at his side, the three musketeers, or even for Bruce and Alfred to scare the monsters away. But he was a big boy; he didn’t need them. 

 

The chandelier had been off limits since Dickie had attempted to teach Jason to swing from it with such disastrous consequences as a sprained wrist, bruised pride and smashed crystal like tears scattered across the floor. Now, with Alfred preoccupied upstairs, he had free rein over the second floor chandelier in the hallway. He could have used the gymnasium on the first floor, at least there was proper equipment there, but the taste of rebellion was sweet on his tongue and the clink of metal chains reminded him of home, strange though it may seem. To and fro he swang, heedless of the damage to his suit, singing the song of his people: “He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze,” and there he went, flying off the chandelier with one, two, three somersaults in a row. He landed lightly on his toes and bowed low, left and right, as if to an audience for there had always been an audience (to fly without a spotter was to risk death but he had always been more daring, or perhaps more foolhardy than his late ancestors). He had not expected an audience’s applause tonight.

 

Jason heard Tim’s muffled scream and started to run. It was perhaps his better judgement that he’d become quite so close to the little squeaker, but when you see a kid on the street and you’re all lenten you don’t ignore their growling stomach just to feed your own. Turning the corner, he cursed the long, sprawling corridors of Wayne Manor, longing instead for the tight and familiar streets of Gotham. And there, at the door of the library, was Timmy, bound tightly by a man at least twice his size. A kidsman or a bludger most likely. Jason had only ever been a tooler, a lowly pickpocket. Even now, roaming the night as Magpie, he was not allowed to take on the more dangerous criminals Batman faced. “You gibfaced foozler!” he cried as he aimed a sharp kick at the man’s knee. He hadn’t been expecting such a sudden attack and let Tim go with a yelp, but then he was back with a solid metal knuckle duster on his hand. Jason couldn’t dodge quickly enough and took a blow to the side of the head. He was aware for long enough to see Timmy launch himself at their assailant with a shriek.

 

“How wonderful to see him perform, the Gray Son of Gotham.” Dickie spun around, searching for the source of the voice. “Ah, I see you recognise that name. You already know the truth. Now it is time for you to claim your destiny.” Snarling, Dickie turned again. He knew that voice: it echoed in the darkness of his memories from  _ before,  _ a thin and rasping whisper in his nightmares. “Show yourself!” he cried in barely suppressed terror but the voice only chuckled. How could he remain so silent and hidden in the faint shadows of the hallway? That tremulous, abrasive voice was audible again, hissing a melodious little rhyme. “ _ Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word of them, or they’ll send the Talon for your head.”  _ He barely had the time to glimpse the figure in black with glowing gold eyes before the unseen knife made contact with his temple and he passed out.

 

It was Alfred who noticed something amiss. Bruce was deep in discussion with a potential business associate about the direction in which Wayne Enterprises was headed. Many had speculated how Selina would influence his initiative, given her position as a wealthy philanthropist and women’s rights campaigner. Alfred gave him a significant look as he passed with a tray of champagne flutes and Bruce inclined his head in acknowledgement. He finished the conversation, asking the man to write Mr Fox with any questions he had, and moved across the room towards where Alfred had disappeared. The older man appeared harried, a concerned frown deepening the wrinkles on his forehead. “I haven’t seen any of the young masters in over an hour, Master Bruce. Would you like me to search the manor for them?” Bruce wracked his brains, trying to remember the last time he’d seen his wards. He recalled Timmy tugging at his sleeve before escaping to the library, Jason following behind, but he had hardly seen Dick since supper. He nodded to Alfred. “Timmy went to the library with Jason. You could start there.” The ball continued and Alfred searched for his master’s children alone.

 

The library was empty and Alfred felt the first inklings of concern. Master Timmy was certainly not one to lie about his intentions and Master Jason adored literature so much it was hard to believe that he would choose to leave once situated. The rug in the hall was disturbed. It was the first sign of a scuffle. Had the boys fought over something? There was a splash of blood on the door frame, still wet. Fresh alarm coursed through him as he straightened. He had to tell Master Bruce. But first he would search for Master Dick, the circus child had no interest in reading and would most likely be upstairs somewhere. Something malevolent had filled the air with a terrible, suspicious charge and Alfred was determined to find out what it was. He almost crashed into Miss Gordon coming down the flight of stairs from her rooms in the East Wing. She was frantic, eyes wide and hair pulled almost free of its neat bun. “I thought I heard a scream. Are the children safe?” Alfred didn’t want to cause her more alarm and yet there was no way to avoid the truth, horrific though it was. He told her of Masters Timmy and Jason’s disappearance from the library, of how Master Dickie was unaccounted for.  She took the news as well as could be expected, offering to join the search. They strode down corridors and peered into empty rooms but the boy was nowhere to be found. It was Barbara who found the single white owl’s feather on the floor beneath the chandelier. 

 

Wayne Manor was not meant to be silent. Barbara Gordon prowled the corridors, not in search of trouble, but in search of answers. There was something fragile in her eyes, a trembling, anxious fury, that made Bruce pause in his slow descent to the basement. They had found the clues, found signs of a struggle, but had not found his boys. Young Barbara paced outside their door, for lack of anything better to do. “Miss Gordon?” he queried and she stopped to give him a short curtesy, awaiting further orders. “I believe Selina would appreciate some assistance. She has retired to her rooms for the evening.” Barbara walked away, skirts swinging in agitation.

 

Mistress Kyle, Selina, was sitting at her dressing table, returning a pair of priceless pearl earrings to their box. She was dressed only in a thin nightgown, her dark hair loose and tumbling down her spine. Barbara had never seen someone more beautiful. “I was like you, once.” She stopped short and kept very still. The mistress was not a woman to be trifled with, fierce and unpredictable, she reacted to threats with the speed and grace of a cat. “I had very little money and a family I was supposed to be ashamed of. Performing, lying, was in my blood and I would do anything to get ahead. I suppose that Dickie and I are alike in that sense. Now, I do not need to but there are those that do so I fight all the more. In a slightly more refined way, of course, but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the thrill of the chase, the song of roaring blood, the dance of death with those who wished me harm. It is a strange thing to miss but you understand, don’t you, Barbara? You want to do all the things your father did but you want to do them right. And I know how you can.” She waved a hand at the dark sheath of fabric on the bed. Barbara had assumed it was the mistress’s dress but now she saw it was a different colour: a dark navy riding habit with charcoal breeches and tall black boots of a leather softer than Barbara had ever dreamed of. She picked up the habit in one hand, marveling at the quality of the fabric. “Is this for me?” she asked and when Selina nodded she stared at her incredulously, struck dumb by her kindness.

“Welcome to the family...Batgirl.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The saga continues as Batgirl searches for her boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha I lied. I'm not even going to pretend to have an excuse I've just been busy with getting stuff sorted for uni and a whole load of other drama because guess whose school screwed up, mine that's whose! Hopefully, I can get part 3 finished in the next 2 weeks or so but if I go radio silent for a few more weeks don't worry.

Dickie woke alone and in the dark. The air was damp and cold; he could feel the oozing slime seeping into his clothing. The dripping of water echoed in the frigid chamber. He knew where he was. He hoped that Jason and little Timmy had not been caught up in all of this. The Court were not to be trifled with and he hadn’t even told Bruce what he knew of them (which wasn’t a lot but it didn’t matter). Standing with a groan, he stumbled to the bars that restrained him. The lock was bulky and complicated. Jason would have cracked it in minutes but Dickie, while by no means stupid, was just not as talented. He checked his pockets for any tools he could use but found none. The bars were far too close for him to slip through. Letting out a dramatic sigh to ruffle his fringe, he began to pace, searching for a solution to his predicament.

 

When Jason came to Tim was attempting to burrow into his chest. He could feel Tim trembling though whether from fear or the unnatural chill he wasn’t sure. The kid was smart, that was for sure: conserving body heat in such a way had kept them alive and their combined intelligence could probably get them out. Tim squirmed and grumbled, opening his eyes to the pitch darkness of their cell. “Where are we?” he mumbled and Jason’s heart melted a little at his huge blue eyes. “Damfino,” he shrugged and Tim frowned as he looked around him.  Jason scanned him over for injuries but other than copping a mouse he didn’t seem too badly off. Jason’s head still throbbed something rotten but he was Magpie; he wouldn’t complain. A man was marching down the corridor, golden eyes glowing in the dark. He passed their cell and from a short way down, Jason heard his grating whisper as he spoke to its occupant, heard Dickie’s angry outburst. He didn’t know what was going on. Tim was examining a grate close to the floor. There were signs of a rat infestation but neither cared about that after so long slumming it in Crime Alley. The grate was loose and it only took Jason seconds to remove it. “Let’s hook it!” Tim hissed but Jason shook his head. They couldn’t leave Dickie. No matter how rough around the edges they were, no matter how grasping or selfish, they were family now, brothers. The three musketeers had to stick together. 

 

Barbara was invited to the Batcave. She still couldn’t quite believe that this was happening: a lowly servant aiding Gotham’s most high profile businessman, the richest man in the city, in his unceasing battle against crime. Vigilantism was never something she had considered for herself but she supposed it made sense. If Batman could hide his identity behind Bruce Wayne’s smiles and congeniality, Batgirl could be hidden behind Barbara Gordon’s poverty and servility. There would be times that the Bat could not come out to play but a maid would not be missed. This was one of those times. And so it was that it was Mr Pennyworth who showed her the cave, demonstrated the new grappling hooks, helped her throw her first batarang and explained what had been uncovered from the little evidence they had found. He bowed to her as he took his leave, a show of respect that surprised Barbara. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Gordon. Now I must send a telegram to Mr Holmes.” She left the cave from the back entrance, into a night that was darker than any she remembered, alone.

 

When Dickie tired of pacing, when his anger at William Cobb had drained away, he slept like he had at the circus: deeply and without movement. It was not so surprising that he managed it. In the circus, you learnt to sleep wherever and whenever you could, regardless of circumstance or comfort and Dickie was of circus blood, made for the trapeze the way some are made for the countryside or the city. So that he slept, that he dreamed, was not so strange. But he dreamed of the past and he had long since moved on from dwelling on those nightmares. Fleeting images passed across his dreamscape, memories of times gone by and the nightmare of his reality. It was a feathered face and amber eyes that haunted him, a taunting, hissing voice that told him he was destined for the same fate, a grey-haired man with the Grayson family eyes that cut the lines and then the same man, masked, that tried to take him later on when he was alone and wrapped in Pop Haly’s coat. He had said he was William Cobb, the Talon of the Court of Owls. He was Dickie’s great grandfather and he wanted an heir.

 

There was a man peering through the bars at them. Jason thought it was probably the man who had made Dickie so angry earlier and glared at him ferociously. The man had a wicked grin underneath the feathered mask and heavy hooded cloak but Jason refused to back down. Timmy tugged at his sleeve urgently and whispered to him: “don’t, Jay. It’s the Owls.” The poor kid looked terrified and Jason didn’t blame him for the man was an imposing figure in the dark, designed to intimidate, when he was seen at all. The man chuckled, a strange and grating sound, and drew back his cloak. It did not reveal much more of him. “The Gray Son chose his brothers well.” He whirled around and disappeared from view. Jason felt Tim slump next to him in relief but the encounter had left him with more questions than answers.

 

Jason wanted, no needed, to talk to Dickie but he couldn’t see his brother and he didn’t want to shout. Licking his lips, he gave one long whistle and then two short clicks. Dickie was awake: he responded with alternating whistles and clicks. They used this code before and taught it to Batman to use at night when the streets were quiet. ‘Explain’, Jason told him and there was a long silence, as if Dickie was considering his answer carefully which was unlike him. ‘Owls. Bad. You need to leave.’ Short messages were always best for this type of communication but that was pushing it on the information. ‘No.’ Dickie didn’t seem impressed because Jason heard him huff out a sigh. ‘Court of Owls wants me’ he responded and then one word: ‘Talon.’ Timmy had tensed again and he asked him for an explanation. “You got any idea, lil’ Tim?” But Tim was nodding and his eyes were wide in his childish face. Something had spooked him, something worse than being kidnapped, something worse than the man at the bars, and Jason didn’t know what it was. “Didn’t you hear the rhyme?” he asked Jason and he snorted as he shook his head. When did the kid think he’d had someone to sing him nursery rhymes, let alone teach them to him? Timmy let out a shaky breath and whispered a verse, almost silently, as if afraid a monster would come out of the dark. “Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word of them or they’ll send the Talon for your head.’ Dickie clicked a rapid affirmative and Timmy trembled more. They sounded a bit over confident to Jason, a bit too prideful, and pride comes before a fall… ‘No match for Robin and Magpie,’ he told Dickie but Dickie sounded frantic as he whistled back his response, a garbled mess of incorrect letters that didn’t fit the word. ‘No. They can’t know. Leave before too late.’ His terror seemed unreasonable but Jason wasn’t going to argue. His questions hadn’t exactly been answered but Dickie was going to be cryptic and when Dickie had his mouth shut it was impossible to open.

 

Barbara was looking for owl feathers. It was not an easy task but it was one she resigned herself to if she wanted to find her charges. Was that one? But no, it was a scrap of cloth fluttering in the breeze. How strange it was that Gotham was so quiet. She was used to its endless jabber, its insistent clamour of desperate noise as its people clawed their way up out of the depths in any way possible. But now there was nothing. No screams echoing down alleys, no cacophony from the music halls and gambling dens, no dog fights or bar fights or smashing bottles or clattering knives. No yelling policemen, no slurred singing, no horse hooves or running footsteps. It was just her, and the rooftops and the breeze. It unnerved her. She glanced down to where she knew there would be trouble on any other night but all was quiet. Not a peep from the criminal underworld and that was wrong. Leaping to the next roof, she scoured the streets for clues and found none. The slick glistening slime caused her to lose her grip momentarily and a she swung from the edge of the roof she caught a glimpse of a feather. Hauling herself up, she glanced downwards and saw nothing. Just an illusion, she decided. But as she turned to move on, she saw the drain cover. The designs were not ornate - this part of Gotham wouldn’t appreciate art over functionality - and yet there was a motif embossed in the lead. She dropped down to street level and looked closer, trying to make out its shape through the muck. It was an owl feather. She tried to look through the grate but the darkness was all encompassing and she couldn’t see beyond a foot inside with just the gaslights. She struggled for a moment before the metal shifted and she dropped down into the sewer. 

 

Bruce missed his sons. With the police sniffing around for clues and Alfred dealing with the terrified guests, he was at a loose end, unable to stay with his sons missing yet unable to leave when the police were still questioning his private life. Selina was playing the role of grieving and terrified woman to perfection and Barbara had disappeared into Gotham to do the job Bruce couldn’t do. The police hadn’t asked to speak to her, possibly because they didn’t know she existed. They would learn soon. He knew that, with work, Barbara Gordon would be a wonderful vigilante and member of the ‘bat family’, as Dickie had named it. He just didn’t quite trust her to find his boys on her own, didn’t quite trust her to keep the secret. Outside, the moon gleamed with a cold light and he was reminded of lonely nights in the manor before his family had filled the void, nights where Alfred slept in the attic and his quarters were filled with phantoms and monsters and creeping fearsome _ things  _ that he couldn’t name. He was no longer a child, no longer feared the dark, and yet the memory of those nights was enough to make him quiver. His boys were alone in the dark and he was not there to chase away the monsters that pursued them. 

 

Barbara hated sewers. It was the first time she had been in one and she was sure Batman and his birds were used to the stench and the slime but she was not. She refused to let it phase her. She had to prove to Selina, and the master, that she was no delicate flower, that she would not wilt at the first sign of trouble nor shy away from dirtying her hands. The sewers under Gotham were still relatively new and so the system comprised mainly of straight tunnels and narrow lead pipes running up to the few houses with such a system in place. It was not hard for her to navigate down one tunnel. Eventually, she came across a fork with one tunnel continuing on and one appearing blocked. From behind the blockage, she could hear whispers and hisses of voices. This was no sewer. She approached the rocks blocking the tunnel and pressed an ear to them in her eagerness to discern what was happening. “The Gray Son is resisting but with his brothers here he will soon cooperate.” She tried to lean closer but met only rock. Dick’s last name was Grayson and she had the sneaking suspicion that the man was talking about her charges. A smoother, more elegant voice was speaking. “See to it that he does. We cannot afford to waste this opportunity. The Bat’s children are not easily come by, Talon, this you know.” She pulled away and tried to find a way into their hideout. There was a smaller grate to one side, almost covered by rocks, and she tugged at it in a futile attempt to get it loose.  In her belt was a screwdriver and she used it to unscrew each corner before tossing away the stones and removing the cover. It was just large enough for her to fit through and the pipes was not so hollow that it made a lot of noise. She crawled through on her way to find the children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was part 2, hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment below (I love comments so much, just yell at me if you want, I don't even care.)
> 
> More language notes from Jason (in order of appearance):  
> \- Damfino is a contraction of 'damned if I know'  
> \- Copping a mouse is weird slang for having a black eye  
> \- Hook it means 'leave quickly' (you may also have seen back slang it which means the same thing)  
> That seems to be it but if you see any others in either part, just let me know and I'll give you a translation.  
> I had to research early 20th Century American sewers and storm drains for this. My browser history must be a mess!


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search is concluded and Batgirl saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.  
> "I'll be done in a few weeks," I said. "It'll be fine," I said. Ha!   
> So, I started uni and it's all been a massive upheaval and there's so much reading to do but it's awesome. I genuinely haven't had time to write that much, hence why it took so long.  
> I'm epically sorry for the wait but hopefully it's worth it.

Timmy had just woken from an uneasy nap when a face appeared in the sewer grate at the back of their cell. With a gasp he shuffled backwards and bumped into Jason who woke with a start.  Jason was quick to get his bearings and shoved Timmy behind him as he faced the wall. “Who’re you?” he asked with a snarl. The face laughed. It was a kind laugh and not what one would expect from a murderer. Timmy recognised it. “Don’t you remember me, Jason? Romeo and Juliet, Act 1 Scene 3, Line 452.” Jason relaxed somewhat and hurried towards the grate. Prising it off the wall took more effort than expected but when it finally came free, Barbara came tumbling out.

 

Dickie could hear a commotion from Jason and Timmy's cell. Muffled whispers and the clattering of metal on stone and didn't they realise they needed to be quiet? If he could hear it, he had no doubt that whatever sentries the Court had placed could as well. He whistled once, long, high and urgent, before cutting it off. A warning. The commotion stopped. His ears, long ago tuned to pick up the sound of danger, could hear nothing beyond the plink of water droplets. They were safe for now. He wondered what the commotion had been about: Bruce had not yet found them for there would definitely be a fight if he had and it wasn't police because they didn't dare go after the Court. Were they finally trying to escape? But he had heard a third voice. Someone had crawled in through the sewers and it certainly wasn't Bruce. The whispers started up again and he definitely heard a girl's voice in among the clamour of Jason's Gotham drawl. A girl's voice, in the sewers of Gotham, far below the safety of the boulevards and sweeping streets they were advised to frequent. So who was it? He could not imagine Selina in such a situation; though she thrived on roughness and the scrappy nature that meant survival in Gotham's underworld, she, like Bruce, would be unlikely to stay hidden. Though she had exemplified the ladylike qualities the upper class desired, she retained the parts of her that preferred to scramble for an honest living among the commoners. Spying did not come naturally, nor did polite conversation. But if not Selina, then who? There were few who knew Jason well enough to lower his impenetrable guard (Wayne manor did not employ servants beyond Alfred and now Barbara, the risk was too great). Could it be Barbara? He hoped not even if he thought she could handle it. But then he heard Tim whistle to him, the unique click-whistle that stood for Barbara. It was her. 

 

They needed to make a plan and soon. Barbara looked around the cell but the only way out, that she could see, was the way she came in. There must be a reason they hadn’t escaped already. She pointed to the exit but the boys shook their heads frantically. “Not without Dickie,” Jason growled. She walked to the door and peered down the corridor. There was only damp stone and slimy metal. The door locked from the outside, obviously, but could she? Yes! If she twisted her arm to just the right angle she could get her hair pin in the lock. She pulled out the pin, careful to leave her braid intact, and slid her arm through the bars. Eyes narrowed into slits, she twisted the pin in the lock, feeling for tumblers and pins. There was a soft click and the lock gave way. As she pushed, she slid her arm out from between the bars. The boys stared but she didn’t have time for their nonsense. “Jason go get Dick,” she whispered, passing him her hair pin, “I’ll take Timmy.” They separated and she didn’t look back. Timmy did.

 

Jason knew how to pick a lock. As a tooler, he had to. The locks on these doors were easy: a tumbler and two pins. He let Dick out. The hug they shared was brief but Jason had never been big on touch anyway, that was Dickie’s thing. They turned to leave. They could no longer see Barbara and Timmy in the dim light, could no longer see anything beyond the light of the oil lamp at the end of the hall really, but they could hear and their ears, fine tuned by months of excursions into Gotham’s underworld as Robin and Magpie, heard the slight shuffle of a footstep behind them. Fists up. Dick wheeled around but Jason stayed facing forwards. He trusted his brother to have his back. Dick trusted him to have his. He couldn’t see their pursuer, heard nothing but a low, grating hiss: “Gray Son, Gray Son.” And Dick dragged him by the hand, desperate to get to the surface again. “Gray Son, Gray Son.” He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the blank faced, beaked masked assassin. “Gray Son, Gray Son.” Dick’s breath was coming in short panicked gasps and he pretended his own was not. The monster was behind them, catching at their heels. “Gray Son, Gray Son.” They turned left, scrambled up a narrower pipe. He could still hear the voice. It echoed through the walls. “Gray Son, Gray Son.” It pursued them still, was getting closer by the second. Soon they would fight. Jason feared what would happen if they lost. They tumbled out into a corridor. The walls were smooth and dry. There were stains. Was that blood? The voice was silent. Dick sank to his knees, trembling. Jason remained standing, let his fists clench and relax, paced away his fear. “Dick explain this to me. How do we get out?” Dick just shook his head, standing wearily. Jason threw his hands up in exasperation. “Dickie, if you’re gonna drag me along for the ride at least tell me what it is. And don’t sell me a dog, I’ll know.” Dick looked him straight in the eye and whispered to him in quiet reverence. 

 

“They came for me when my parents fell. He said he was my great uncle and I suppose he must be ‘cept I’d never heard of no ‘William Cobb’. He took me away from the circus, away from my home, and brought me here. He told me it was a Grayson family tradition, that every third generation, the youngest son was taken to join the Court. I didn’t even know what that meant. I’d never heard of them. But he was family and he said “blood is thicker than water, Grayson,” and “anything’s better than the streets, Grayson,” and “don’t question the Court of Owls, Grayson.” He was so serious and I was so young. I listened. He took me into the maze, took me here, and gave me a knife. He trained me, if you can call it training, all the time wearing that creepy mask. When I did well, he let me sleep under a blanket and have some food. When I did badly, I went without. Then they started coming to watch me train, to monitor my progress. They let in other Talons and watched as they tried to kill me. I never killed for them. It angered them and I was punished for it. Eventually, I found the end of the maze. I got out and never looked back, never let myself look closer. But they’ve been looking for me, Jason, and I let them find me, I made myself noticeable. Now they’ve caught me again and I can’t remember the way out.”

 

Barbara couldn’t remember the way out. She hurried along corridors and searched for the illusive drain covers that she needed to escape, all the while holding Timmy’s hand. She reached a junction and made to turn but Timmy stayed still. “There’s a draft,” he whispered, pointing up the other branch. She stared at him. Sometimes she had no clue what was happening in that kid’s brain and she was  _ clever,  _ damn it. “If there’s a draft it has to be coming from somewhere. It’s the way out.” She squeezed him tight to her chest. The little  _ genius.  _ They knew where to go now. They could get out of this cold, dark hell hole. Following the tendrils of a breeze, and the wind was never strong in Gotham central, was hard but they managed. The entrance was ahead, they could see the gaslight gleaming on slick stone. She reached for the ladder, pushed Tim up ahead of her. There was a noise, the skittering of a stone. She turned, mouth dropping in horror, for there was the culprit in all its feathered, amber eyed glory. 

 

Dick tried to remember the pattern. The maze had not changed in the years since he had fought through it. Was it right, then left or right, then straight? He did not know. Was that blood stain his or the Talon’s? He didn’t dare think about it. He racked his brain and tried to remember. It hadn’t been that long ago. He had left markings, hadn’t he? Little scratches like arrows to mark the way forward. Could he find them? He examined the wall. There! A tiny mark. They were on the right track. Every wall looked the same but he knew to avoid the blood stains and … other stains, and to look for those tiny scratches to show him the way. Jason stayed behind him, keeping watch while they moved, fists always up, eyes always scanning the space behind them. If they were ambushed, they were done for. The maze grew darker and now Dick could only see a few feet ahead of him at a time. They were almost there. The exit was not much further from where they were and he could feel the air from outside, cool and damp. Turn right. He could taste the grimy air of Gotham on his tongue. Turn left. The path was sloping ever upwards towards freedom. Keep straight. He could hear footsteps. Turn … footsteps? He started to run. The gaslights lit their exit. They were almost there. The Talons wouldn’t follow onto the street, this he knew. Run.

 

Timmy knew he had to get out. Barbara had pushed him up that ladder but he had heard her gasp and nothing good could come of that. He looked down. It was the man with the mask, the Talon. Barbara had squared up to fight but Timmy knew there was no fighting a Talon, not if you wanted to live. He reached down and grabbed her hand, ready to swing her up after him but she tore it from his grasp. “You’ll run if you know what’s good for you, freak,” she growled and the Talon cocked his head to one side, as if curious. He did not speak, simply stood there watching. “Timmy go, get out of here.” She sounded resigned, firm and resolute, but Timmy refused.

“Not without you.” He grabbed her hand again and tried to pull her up the ladder. She dug her heels in and refused to budge, or maybe he was just too weak.

”I’ll be fine, Timmy. Go find your brothers.” Timmy ran.

 

The street was slick with old newspaper and thick with mist. Timmy shuddered and pulled his sleeves down over his hands. He walked faster. There was a clattering behind him and he began to run. Turning the corner, a figure rose out of the mist and he shrieked once before a hand clamped over his mouth. “Holy shit, Timmy, don’t scream you’ll give us away.” Jason. It was just Jason. Which meant… “Jay, you scared him. Let him up.”  The hand across his mouth disappeared and Jason’s face appeared in front of him. “What’s up, kid?” He had noticed Timmy’s panic. “Where’s Barbara?” Timmy shook his head in mute terror and Dickie gasped. He had understood what Jason had not. He turned and dashed back up the street Timmy had come down. Jason and Timmy followed.

 

Barbara’s heart pounded and her legs shook. She knew she couldn’t hope to defeat this enemy. Batgirl would be dead before anyone knew she had lived. But her hands were steady and her stance strong. She would stand her ground, protect her boys, until her dying breath. Miss Selina would be so disappointed. But she had done her duty: the boys were safe. The assassin watched her from a crouch, head tilted eerily to one side, and then he began to sing.  _ “Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime _ .  _ They watch you at your hearth. They watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word of them or they’ll send the Talon for your head.”  _ She stood firm, unintimidated. She had faced the wrath of her father, the madman, and come out the other side. An old nursery rhyme held no fear for her. She held her head up high and waited for the fight.

 

She didn’t have to wait long. The bird-faced man, the Talon, lunged for her with his knife outstretched and she danced away. He spun and a knife was right in front of her. She blocked. Side kick to the knee would hurt him like hell. He didn’t falter. Elbow to the gut. No reaction. He was everywhere at once, knives twirling. One caught her cape. She heard the tear. The strike to the solar plexus didn’t slow him down. Did he need to breathe? She kicked out and caught his hand. The knife clattered to the ground. She picked it up. She had the knife to his throat when she heard Dickie cry out. “Get his heart or he’ll just keep coming back.” She wasn’t going to kill a man in cold blood, no matter what he’d done. He was still a man. “He’s not human, Babs, not anymore.” She moved the knife. The assassin started to laugh, a wild, terrible laugh, darker than the night and just as sinister. She closed her eyes. He was singing again.  _ “When night falls and the Bat flies, the Owls with the Gray Son’s help will rise. Blood will flow and the Talons will know their Gray Son has returned.”  _ The knife plunged in. His laugh bubbled in his chest. He stopped. It was over.

 

Alfred worried about Master Bruce. He hadn’t slept since the boys were taken, hadn’t eaten or even taken a bite to eat. Miss Selina had tried to help but to no avail and now the police had left, he had retreated to the basement to conduct his own investigation. So far nothing had been revealed. When the clock struck half past the hour, Alfred put his foot down and insisted they get some rest. There had been a struggle but eventually Master Bruce agreed on the condition that, should the telephone ring, or a telegram arrive, he be notified at once. It was almost dawn when he heard the commotion in the library. A brief investigation revealed that Miss Barbara had returned with all three boys in tow, safe and sound. He allowed propriety to slip for a moment and wrapped them in a hug. Then he took them down to the kitchen for hot cocoa. Bruce could wait until morning. Lord knows, he needed the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's just the one funky slang phrase to translate this time:  
> 'Don't sell me a dog' means don't lie to me.
> 
> Can you believe I spent half an hour looking for a Romeo and Juliet quote that matched what I was looking for?  
> Act 1 Scene 3, Line 452 is "An honour! were not I thine only nurse."
> 
> The whistle click thing returns and is still an adapted form of Morse code because although radio had been invented the technology was not advanced enough to be used outside the home.
> 
> That's all for the random research facts. I hope you've enjoyed the story and don't forget to leave a review! My degree is a joint honours with creative writing so any advice you have to give me is greatly appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins the Million Dollar Debut of Batgirl! (do you appreciate my references?) You'll see more in the next chapter which I will only feel right about posting when part 3 is almost finished so maybe next week?  
> Now, it's time for the research findings, people!  
> So, this time it'll mostly be language notes because Jason's slang is impossible to understand without a dictionary (I should know).  
> In order of appearance:  
> \- Squeaker means 'small child'  
> \- Lenten means 'starving'  
> \- Kidsman or Bludger should be fairly self explanatory. Think Fagin from Oliver Twist or a common thug  
> \- Tooler means 'pickpocket'  
> \- Gibfaced foozler (my new favourite insult) literally means 'ugly clumsy person', gibfaced being a jab at the person's looks, foozler being someone really clumsy.  
> More will appear with the next installment (I have a list of Victorian slang words attached to my draft).


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